


And The Word Was Made Flesh

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Exciting new orifices, M/M, Masturbation, Psychological Trauma, Self-Inflicted Injury, Sex with exciting new orifices, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Weird dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Jon steels himself, and unbuttons his shirt. The thought of showing this to someone else, of having Elias’ cool, assessing eyes linger on whatever’s happened to him, makes him feel queasy, but he has to know what’s going on. He lets the shirt hang open and peels away the bandage, which is already damp with fluid since this morning. Elias makes a small sound of interest, and Jon loathes him.“What is it?” he pleads. Elias takes a step closer, a look of fascination on his face, his eyes fixed on what Jon is now thinking of as anorifice.“That is...rather interesting,” Elias says, his voice intent.*Something is happening to Jon's body.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 65
Kudos: 377





	And The Word Was Made Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> The question asked was very simple: "What if David Cronenberg's Videodrome, but TMA?" This was my response.
> 
> Thanks to the fantastic [fatal_drum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum) for their always excellent beta reading, and for hand holding me through lots of angst about this fic. Also thanks to the discord crew for encouragement and enabling, particularly a couple of our resident artists (you know who you are) for the inspiring visuals!
> 
> This was mostly written pre-160 so features fanon-typical Elias, because it's sexier and I like him better.

His first night back, Jon goes to the new flat, the one he never got a chance to move into before the Circus took him. It smells like fresh paint, with boxes and suitcases stacked neatly against the wall. It’s very quiet. The Circus was never quiet, never peaceful, always someone _(something)_ prodding and pulling at him, shrill laughter in his ears. The silence is almost jarring, by contrast. Jon opens the window so he can hear the city outside, reassuring noises of life continuing on. 

He turns on the shower as hot as he can bear it, steps under and scrubs his skin until it’s raw, until every hint of greasy lotion is stripped from his pores. He keeps his eyes on the austere white tiles, pushing down the faint nausea he feels at the touch of his own hands. The memory of cold, plastic ones on his skin, slick and invasive. Orsinov’s delighted cooing over him, reminding him endlessly that it was _her_ skin he was wearing, _but only for now, Archivist._

Afterwards, as he’s toweling off, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He looks thin, and exhausted, and he wishes he could say it’s all due to the past month but that would be optimistic. His skin is scoured and glowing, and there’s a patch on his abdomen that looks blotchy and inflamed. It’s warmer than the surrounding skin when he touches it, tender. A rash, maybe, or perhaps he just scrubbed too hard.

He climbs into bed, and spends hours staring gritty eyed at the ceiling, listening for the distant wail of a calliope. 

*

The next day he’s back in the Archives, trying his best to pretend he was never gone. It’s easier than he expected. After her quick “sorry for your kidnapping” Melanie goes back to plotting against Elias, and Basira only nods when she brings paperwork to his desk. Tim ignores him entirely. Daisy is notable by her absence, but that’s not unusual and it’s best not to ask.

Martin’s the only one who mentions anything about - well...about it, and god, Jon wishes he could have just one bloody normal conversation one of these days. If only to himself he can admit that he thought about Martin a lot the past month, about Georgie rolling her eyes affectionately, _just talk to him you idiot,_ and he’d meant to. He’d really meant to, and then he was kidnapped and all he could think was that now he might never get the chance. Well here he is getting the chance and being just as bloody useless as always, blathering on about the _condition of his skin_ as if that’s something anyone would want to hear about - 

(The rash was still there this morning, definitely a rash, the skin hot and itchy and it was so bad while he was recording earlier that he finished the statement squirming in his chair, and he doesn’t want to think about his own skin right now but he can’t _stop.)_

\- and Martin is giving him a worried, tentative smile that Jon doesn’t want. He doesn’t want Martin thinking that he needs to be taken care of. Martin has enough to worry about, he needs to take care of himself. It’s bad enough that Elias has him reading statements. Jon’s _fine._ Jon’s got too much to do to _not_ be fine.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he says, and it doesn’t mean anything but it’s all that he has. “We haven’t… I know we haven’t talked much since…Sasha, and everything.”

Martin brightens, like Jon’s said something kind, but he hasn’t. He’s not sure he knows how. 

“Well, I mean, it’s not too late, y’know? Unless the world ends.” 

Jon wishes that possibility were funny, or even something like distant. He sits at his desk and reads the follow up on Benoît Maçon and his insect wife, his nails curled into his palms to keep from scratching at the itch that seems to spread beneath his skin. 

He checks in the mirror that night. The rash is vibrant red, inflamed and puffy, and the urge to _scratch_ is so strong he has to grit his teeth against it. Maybe it’s an allergy, a delayed reaction to the sickly, floral scented lotion Orsinov had him smeared with; maybe there’s such a thing as being over-moisturized. He tries not to dwell too much on the memory. It only invites panic, and he’s so tired of panic, of fear. 

It’s just a rash. It’ll heal on its own, if he leaves it be. Most things do. 

*

Jon isn’t sleeping well. In the middle of the night he gets out of his cold bed and walks around the new flat, an aching absence inside him, opening all the cupboards and drawers. He is _starving,_ and there isn’t any food, all the surfaces new and bare and free of dust, the shelves in the fridge rattling emptily. 

He opens the front door of the flat and walks through into his office. He is so hungry, and the only object on his desk is a tape recorder. It’s running, and Jon doesn’t switch it off before he pries open the tape compartment. The magnetic tape spills out with a whine, unspooling from its cassette. 

The loose coils slip through Jon’s fingers as he grasps them, pulls handfuls up to his mouth and chews and chews and swallows. The tape squeaks and snaps between his teeth, fills his throat with jagged shards, and he is crying with gratitude as it slides down into his belly, as he shoves more of it into his mouth, yards and yards of it, far too much. This is the only thing that can sate his hunger, fill him, make him what he is supposed to be - 

He wakes with his nails digging at his abdomen, scratching viciously. It hurts, _burns_ , in a way that is deeply satisfying. It’s an effort to drag his hand away. Jon stumbles groggily to the bathroom and winces at the sight in the mirror. The rash is swollen, inflamed, scored all over where his nails dug in. There is a deep, vertical seam running its length, the skin cracked and raw looking. 

“So much for moisturizing,” he mutters, ignoring the brittle note in his own voice.

Tomorrow he’ll get some bandages. For now, he folds a clean hand towel over the area and secures it with a necktie, so he can’t scratch at it if he tries. He knows it will heal if he leaves it alone. He just needs to _leave it alone._

*

Jon buys antiseptic cream, smears it over the rash and covers it with a bandage. Curls his nails into his palms. He still isn’t sleeping well. 

He’s so tired, all the time. The Unknowing is coming, and everyone is looking to Jon as if he could figure it out. As if he wasn’t as lost and scared as the rest of them. He works himself to exhaustion and beyond, goes back to his new flat and stares at his bedroom ceiling with gritty eyes. 

Someone is pounding at his door. When he opens it, Daisy pushes inside, pins him to the ground under her knee and pushes the tip of a hunting knife through his sternum with a crunch of bone. Jon opens his mouth to scream, but all that comes out is static. Daisy slowly saws the knife through muscle and bone, working it down his torso as he pants in paralyzed agony. 

“This is how we deal with monsters,” she growls.

“I didn’t mean to be a monster,” Jon pleads, but the words come out as the squeal of a tape recorder. Black magnetic tape is pouring through the hole Daisy’s cutting, great coils of it like intestinal loops, slick with Jon’s blood.

“You’re doing it wrong, Jon,” Elias observes coolly. “It’s supposed to go in, not out.”

Jon wants to protest that this isn’t precisely his choice, except he knows it always is and it always has been. The tape is twisting around Daisy’s wrists, her throat, wrapping tight as her eyes bulge and she gasps for breath. 

“Make it stop!” she chokes, and Jon wants to, he _wants_ to, but he doesn’t know how, can only watch the tape as it tightens and tightens - 

He wakes panting, his fingers clutching at his throat, over the scar Daisy gave him. He’s sweating, feverish, his hair damp. It’s almost four in the morning. Jon gets up and goes to the bathroom. 

The bandage sticks as he peels it off, and Jon hisses with discomfort. It looks bad. The seam down the middle has split open, the edges of the wound folding away from each other. There’s no blood, but the whole area is swollen, seeping clear fluid. Jon bites his lip. A terrible fear is creeping through the back of his skull, that this is something the Circus _did_ to him. The image runs through his head, of that seam stretching, continuing up the length of his torso, splitting open his skin from throat to groin so it can be peeled off more easily. He pushes the thought away; he’s getting paranoid. It’s just a wound that’s got worse because he’s been neglecting it.

He cleans it and smears on antiseptic cream, covers it with a fresh bandage. He should take this to a doctor, he knows. But he probably won’t. There’s too much to do; he doesn’t have time. It’ll heal by itself.

*

They’re all looking at him oddly these days. Basira eyes him over the spine of a book, wary. Melanie looks like she expects him to crack. Tim doesn't look at him at all. Only Daisy still eyes him with the same flat, assessing expression she always has. Jon remembers the crunch of bone as she drove the knife through his sternum, and has to remind himself it wasn’t real. She’s only tried to kill him once. 

(Martin bites his lip and brings Jon endless cups of tea, and Jon wishes he could talk to him properly. Wishes he could tell Martin that he's afraid too, that he doesn't know what he's doing, that something's happening to him and he's too scared to even let himself think about it. He can't though; he _can't._ It's safer this way.)

Jon sits at his desk and listens to the sound of the tape recorder. He didn’t intend to read a statement today, but he must have. Otherwise why would the recorder be running? The skin beneath his shirt is throbbing with heat. Jon unbuttons it, and sees that the wound is gaping open, deep and bloody. 

He digs his fingers in at the edges and pulls it wider, the flesh parting with a wet, tearing sound. He hears his own soft groan at the pain, and the tape recorder hears it too, hissing with hunger. Jon reaches his fingers inside, digging deeper and deeper and - 

He wakes sitting up at his desk, his heart racing and his hands clenched in the front of his shirt. 

“More tired than I thought,” he breathes shakily, and opens the file he was working on before he dozed off. The rash feels tender and hot beneath his shirt. Jon curls his nails into his palms, and his knuckles rub unthinkingly over the bandage. 

Jon leaves the Archives that night with his neck stiff from falling asleep sitting up, exhausted and anxious. Back at the new flat he turns the shower on as hot as he can bear it, rolls his shoulders beneath the spray, washing away the grime and sweat prickling his skin. He bites his lip, considering, and then reaches for his cock. There is still a vague sense of discomfort at the touch of his own hand, at the consideration of his own body, but he pushes it away. He’s been so tense, lately; he needs this. Maybe he’ll finally be able to sleep without those strange, unnerving dreams. 

He works himself to hardness, leaning against the wet tile as his hips push into his grip. His free hand skirts over his chest and moves down across his belly. He doesn’t look down, because then he’d have to see the way he’s split open, raw and dark red, the way the skin furls gently around the wet, shining interior. His fingers brush the edges of the wound, and he gasps. His cock jumps in his hand. Jon does it again, feeling dizzy with horror and fascination. Pleasure rushes through him, nerve endings that shouldn't exist. Jon presses his fingers in harder, fingertips trembling over the hot, velvet skin, and groans.

He feels himself tip over the edge, chest heaving and body trembling with mounting waves of pleasure until he shakes apart, his cock pulsing. He opens his eyes as the sensation dies away, and looks down at last to see his fingers pushed into the wound, almost to the second knuckle. 

When he pulls them out, they are slick and shining with clear fluid. The gash in his belly is throbbing obscenely. Calling it a wound at this point is an exercise in self-deception, but Jon is good at that. He covers it with a fresh bandage and goes to bed. 

*

Something is happening to Jon’s body. No. Something _has_ happened to Jon’s body, while he was busy ignoring it. He needs to do something about it, but he has no idea what that might be. There’s only one person he can ask, and he hates himself for it even as he knocks on Elias’ office door. 

“Come in, Jon.”

Elias gives him a flat smile as he enters. Jon isn’t imagining the way his eyes flicker to the front of Jon’s shirt, and he tugs on it uncomfortably. 

“There’s...something wrong with me,” he says, stiffly. “I’m not sure - I think it might be something that happened when the Circus had me. It hasn’t had any ill effects yet, other than some strange dreams - ”

“Dreams?” Elias interrupts, suddenly attentive. Jon shakes his head; that’s not what’s important.

“No worse than any others I’ve had recently. But it’s - well, I’ll have to, uh, have to show you.”

“Please,” Elias gestures welcomingly, as if Jon’s offered to show him an interesting bit of research. Jon steels himself, and unbuttons his shirt. The thought of showing this to someone else, of having Elias’ cool, assessing eyes linger on whatever’s happened to him, makes him feel queasy, but he has to know what’s going on. He lets the shirt hang open, and peels away the bandage, which is already damp with fluid since this morning. Elias makes a small sound of interest, and Jon loathes him. 

“What is it?” he pleads. Elias takes a step closer, a look of fascination on his face, his eyes fixed on what Jon is now thinking of as an _orifice._

“That is...rather interesting,” Elias says, his voice intent. “May I look more closely?”

Jon nods, gritting his teeth beneath the weight of observation. Elias approaches, and then drops to one knee in front of him. It shouldn’t be a shock, but Jon still catches his breath sharply. 

“Hmm,” Elias says, and leans close, resting his fingertips on Jon’s abdomen. Jon is trembling, barely holding himself still. Elias’s fingers slide over the hot, velvety skin, and Jon holds his breath. 

“Let me just…” Elias murmurs, and his fingers pry at the opening, slipping inside. There’s a shock of pleasurable sensation, horrifying in its intimacy. Jon gasps and stumbles back, right into Elias’ desk. 

“D-don’t - ” he stutters, his face heating. 

“Of course,” says Elias, standing up smoothly, as if everything was perfectly normal. He returns back to the other side of his desk, while Jon fumbles the buttons on his shirt closed with shaking fingers. He is breathing hard.

“Well?” he says, finally. Elias tilts his head, considering.

“It’s not the work of the Stranger, I can tell you that much.”

“What _is_ it, then?”

“I’m not sure,” says Elias, picking up his pen again. “But I very much look forward to finding out.”

*

He reads a statement, hoping for a distraction. This horror, at least, he knows. It describes a series of escalating encounters with the same person, beginning with accidentally bumping into them on the street, and ending in the enraged woman attempting to murder the statement giver in front of a crowd of people. It's frightening, and oddly exhilarating.

“A rather straightforward one,” Jon comments to the tape recorder. “A frenzy of violence for its own sake, as if the perpetrator were driven to it. One might wonder if she heard any unusual music that day. Unfortunately no follow up research can be done, as apparently the woman overpowered the arresting officer and fled without a trace. When we contacted Mr. Harlan, he stated that he had not seen his attacker again, and had not had any other unusual encounters. Frustratingly, it seems this is a dead end. End recording.”

The tape recorder clicks off, and Jon is suddenly, intensely aware of a pulsing heat beneath the bandage on his abdomen. Glancing to make sure the door is closed, Jon undoes the bottom few buttons on his shirt and peels the bandage away from the skin. 

The whole area is flushed and swollen, thick fluid seeping steadily from between the folds of skin. It is well, _throbbing_ is the only way to really describe it. Jon feels light headed, as if in anticipation of something profound. He can’t help stroking fingers over the soft, hot skin, a breathless gasp escaping him. There is something here he needs to understand.

A click, and the tape recorder snaps open, revealing the clear plastic of the cassette, wound through with brown magnetic tape. Jon stares at it for a long moment, while the new opening in his body pulses. The idea that comes to him is so overpowering and alien that he’s quite sure it can’t be his own, and yet even as he thinks that he finds his hand reaching towards the cassette, his fingers trembling. He still can’t believe what he’s doing as he pries the tape out of its compartment. 

“No,” he tells himself, “No, no, this is – this is not, no…” He mutters a low stream of denial even as his shaking hand lines the cassette up with the opening. It’s…the perfect size. As if they were made for each other. Jon’s hand moves against his will, and presses the plastic of the tape to the slickness oozing from his body. He shivers, and his hand keeps moving. The swollen lips part as he pushes on them, the slit opening to accept the tape, folding slick and welcoming around the plastic as Jon pushes it deeper. He is panting loudly as he pushes it inside himself, and bites his lip against a moan. God, it feels _good._

Once the cassette is fully engulfed, Jon slowly withdraws his fingers, trembling and slick. He stares at them with a mix of distaste and fascination, then down at the – _whatever_ it is that just _swallowed_ a tape. He can still _feel_ it inside him, the hard plastic squeezed between the wet, muscular walls of this new orifice. It’s a shamefully pleasurable sensation. Jon feels dazed and overwhelmed. He places his hands carefully on the wood of his desk, and sits, breathing shallowly while his mind scrabbles frantically at nothing.

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, mesmerized, before a knock on the door rouses him. 

“Uhh, just a second,” he calls, buttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. He shoves the ends hastily into his trousers and rakes a hand through his hair to put it into some semblance of order. 

“All right, come in.”

The door opens and Martin stands on the threshold, smiling tentatively at him.

“Hi, Jon. Just thought I’d see if you want a cup of tea?” 

_Martin,_ Jon thinks, _Martin, please, something horrible is happening to me and I don't know what to do. I think I'm even less human than I was._

 _Please, Martin,_ he thinks, _I'm scared and I don't want to be alone._

Martin looks tired and anxious. He looks concerned for Jon. Like he'd do anything he could to help. Jon gives him a weak smile. 

“I’m - I'm fine thanks. Thank you, Martin.” Jon tries to school his tone into something sincere and not halfway to panic. He’s not sure how well he’s done, and Martin looks at him a little askance, but doesn’t say anything.

“Right,” he says. “Okay. Well, let me know if you need...anything?”

“I will. Thank you, Martin.” 

“Sure.” Martin turns to leave, then hesitates. “Umm, I think you might have...spilled something? Did you want me to find you a clean shirt?”

Jon glances down at himself and flushes hotly as he sees the damp patch in the front of his shirt, fluid seeping through the fabric. 

“No, it’s - it’s only water. It’ll dry by itself.”

“Okay…” Martin says, clearly suspicious, but he doesn’t push the matter. When he shuts the door behind him, Jon exhales shakily. He has no idea what the hell is going on here, but it needs to stop. He needs to put a stop to it. 

*

The whole way home on the Tube, he can feel the orifice throbbing in time with his pulse, inexorably tied into his heartbeat. The muscle contracting pleasurably around the hard plastic of the cassette. Jon grits his teeth and pulls his coat firmly around himself, trying to ignore the warm wetness soaking through the front of his shirt.

He strips to the waist in front of his bathroom mirror. The opening is dark red and leaking, the lips of it tumescent, glistening with fluid. Carefully, Jon touches his fingers to the swollen entrance, which is tender and hot to the touch. He steels himself, taking a deep breath. 

“Right,” he says, pushing down the panic that’s scratching at his brain, asking to be let in. “Okay.”

Jon slides two fingers of his left hand into the slit. It is tight inside, the muscle firm and slippery. It feels - he ignores how it feels as his face flushes and his breath catches. He eases in nearly to the knuckles before his fingertips brush the hard edges of the cassette, which seems impossible. He has...organs and a circulatory system and the like. How can there be space for this _thing?_ Jon tries to hook the tips of his fingers around the plastic, slide it back out the way it came, because of everything that’s happened, the absolute weirdest thing is having a god damned _cassette tape_ stuck inside him. 

The tape doesn’t move, and as Jon probes with his fingers, he can feel where the hard plastic vanishes beneath the flesh, as if it’s being _ingested_. Panic is pounding at the doors now. This is...god, what the hell _is_ this? He pushes his fingers in further, exploring around the edges of the tape where it’s being swallowed by muscle, trying to pry his nails under it. _That_ hurts. Jon huffs and digs harder, to no avail. 

He withdraws his fingers and tries to think, his mind racing frantically. He needs something to cut with. Scissors or a knife, or _anything_ he can use to cut away the cords of muscle swallowing the tape. Pushing a steak knife or a full sized set of kitchen shears into his abdomen is probably not a great idea. So, nail scissors then? Not quite the ideal tool, but at least it will be precise.

He sterilizes the little scissors as best he can with surgical spirits, and then braces himself in front of the mirror. This is going to hurt. He parts the slick lips with the fingers of his right hand, probing deep until he finds the cassette tape. Carefully, he slides the scissors in alongside his fingers, the metal cold against the hot flesh. He guides the tip of the scissors against one of the thick bulges of muscle fiber consuming the tape, and positions the blades against it, breathing hard. 

“One...” he whispers to himself. “Two…” 

On _three_ he makes the cut and whimpers as pain lances through him. Liquid heat washes over his fingers. He wants to pause, let himself adjust to the pain, but he’s barely nicked the flesh, and if he lets himself stop he might not be able to start again. He cuts, the pain dragging a rough gasp from his lips. Blood is beginning to leak out around his fingers, dribbling down his front. Jon grits his teeth and keeps cutting, the tiny blades making for slow work. Sharp agony tears through him, rivulets of blood soaking into his trousers. Small, wounded animal sounds wrench themselves from his throat as he hacks at the flesh, his eyes watering with pain. At last the fiber gives way, its loose ends recoiling wetly, and Jon gasps, his knees almost giving way beneath him. 

The tape remains where it is, tethered by a dozen more muscle fibers just as thick and pulsing. 

Jon pulls the scissors out and drops them in the sink, his hands shaking with adrenaline and tacky with blood. Red droplets spatter across the enamel. Jon looks as himself in the mirror, ashen faced and panting, his eyes tight with pain and tears sliding down his cheeks. For a moment he thinks he might pass out, and he braces himself against the sink until his head stops spinning. 

“Well,” he tells his reflection weakly, “So much for that idea.”

*

Jon dreams of an eye opening in his abdomen, huge and bulbous and staring. He prods at it with his fingers and it blinks ponderously. Elias tuts and pushes his hands away, takes a letter opener from his desk and holds it up. 

“This is how you do it,” he explains, as if it should be obvious, and stabs the eye in a single swift motion. It rolls in agony as thick vitreous fluid begins to pour out, and Jon shares its pain, falling to his knees with a groan. 

“It’s all right, Jon,” Elias tells him, stroking his hair. “You haven’t done yourself any permanent mischief.”

Jon wakes, and knows with absolute certainty that the violent stranger from the statement was named Nikki Brand, and that her frenzy was triggered by a book of violin sheet music she purchased at a charity shop in Brixton. She was arrested again two days after the recorded encounter, when she attacked a postman delivering to her home, and died before she could go to trial, of massive self-inflicted injuries. He _knows_ all this as if it was a part of him. 

He can’t feel the tape inside him anymore. It doesn’t even hurt. 

*

The next morning Jon sits at his desk and finds himself reaching reflexively for a statement. He hears a click as a tape recorder comes to life, listening hungrily. There’s a hot feeling beneath the thick bandage as the orifice starts its grotesque, sensual pulsing. Jon would normally never read a statement two days in a row, but something inside him desperately wants to, a bone deep craving he can’t deny. 

He pulls his fingers away from the folder and lays both hands flat on his desk. He should do something else, look at the research Basira left, or take some notes from the text he’s been reading on cargo cults, or do the budget submission for next month. _Anything,_ rather than sit here and stare at the statement like it’s the only thing he wants in the world, listening to the soft, encouraging hiss of the tape. He can’t tear his eyes away. Can’t think about anything else, frozen like a machine with its gears locked up, his nerves firing frantically and the terrible new part of him throbbing hungrily. 

He can’t even bring himself to be surprised when Elias opens his office door, tapping on it as he does in the obnoxious way that means he’s going to invade your space regardless. 

“Hello, Jon.” Elias sounds cool and amused, the way he sounded in Jon’s dreams, and a sharp flood of anger pours through Jon, breaking the spell of the statement so he can drag his gaze away and up to Elias’ smug face. It’s almost a relief, being angry at Elias, something familiar and known. 

“Don’t _hello Jon_ me,” he snarls. “What the hell is going on?”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” says Elias, shutting the office door behind him. “There are generally any number of things going on.”

Jon shudders, his fingertips pressing hard against the wooden surface of his desk. Now that he’s managed to look away, it’s less of an effort to move. He pulls himself to his feet, away from the statement, and around the desk towards Elias. His shirt is soaked through at the front, where the slit has been leaking right through its fresh bandage, drooling at the prospect of another tape. 

“What do you _think_ I’m talking about, Elias? The new paper supplier? Or the fact that I’ve grown a - a _mouth_ in my fucking _stomach!”_

Jon’s aware he is almost shouting and pulls himself back under control, digging his fingers into his palms. He sees Elias’ eyes flicker down towards the wet patch on the front of his shirt. An indulgent smile curls Elias’ lips. 

“A mouth? Don’t be unimaginative, Jon.”

“It - it _ate_ a tape. Digested it. What would _you_ call it?” Jon can feel his face growing hot, because he is all too aware of the other associations that could be drawn to the slick hole that leaks and pulses, its swollen, sensitive lips. Elias makes a small _hmm_ sound.

“I would say that comparing any body part directly to any other body part is a sign of lazy thinking. Honestly, Jon, do you look at your lung and your kidney and assume they have the same function because they’re a vaguely similar shape?”

“Then what _is_ it?” Jon demands, not commenting on the fact that as a rule, he tries not to look at his own organs at all. Elias takes a step closer and Jon holds his ground, not willing to give him the satisfaction.

“A gift.” Elias’ tone is strangely soft, and his eyes are intent on Jon’s. 

“A _gift?”_ Jon barks a disbelieving laugh. “Well, remind me to thank the Beholding _very_ much for the gaping abdominal wound. It’s not even my birthday.”

“What happened?” Elias continues as if he hadn’t said anything. “When it took the tape. What did you _know?”_

“I - I, ah, I knew more about the statement,” Jon stammers. Elias’ eyes are still holding his, their focus absolute and overwhelming. “More than I should have known. It just...came to me.”

“Wonderful,” Elias breathes, and Jon gasps in alarm as Elias’ hand comes to rest on his abdomen, pressing against the hot, hungry thing beneath his soaked shirt. It throbs under Elias’ hand, as if recognizing his touch, and Jon makes a low, involuntary sound. Elias’ other hand comes up to grasp the back of his neck, and Jon considers his humiliation complete as Elias’ thumb strokes over his pulse point, making him shiver. 

“What am I supposed to do about this?” he demands weakly, trying to regain his composure. 

“Embrace it,” Elias tells him, fervently. “You have no idea how special this is, Jon.” 

“I don’t - I don’t want this.” Jon feels dizzy, untethered. He lifts his hands to push Elias away, but then Elias’ knuckles push against the swollen, sensitive flesh and his fingers end up curled in the fabric of Elias’ jacket instead, a shameful moan escaping him. Elias leans in close, and murmurs into his ear:

“What _do_ you want, Jon?”

“I want…” he says, panting as Elias’ knuckles drag across his abdomen. “I, _god,_ I want to read that statement…”

“Then you should.”

Elias’ hands are pressing him back towards his desk chair, and Jon goes with it, unable to deny the hunger, the _want,_ that fills him. He sits down heavily, and before he can settle his legs under the desk Elias is on his knees between them, untucking Jon’s sodden shirt and undoing the buttons. Jon doesn’t stop him, and when Elias’ fingers peel away the soaked bandage, revealing the hot, hungry opening beneath, a deep thrill runs through him. There is something deeply satisfying in being seen, _known,_ in this way. 

Jon knows this isn’t right, but he doesn’t have the strength to resist it now, not while his body is trembling with need that is at once intensely alien and utterly familiar. Elias’ thumb traces the wet slit lightly, dragging between the swollen lips, and Jon’s breath catches. 

“Elias…” he begins, as if he could somehow talk sense into this situation, stop it before it goes any further. Elias looks up from where he’s kneeling between Jon’s thighs, and his expression is something close to adoration. 

“Go ahead, Jon,” he says. 

Jon picks up the first page in trembling fingers. 

“Statement of…Max Renn,” he reads, trying to pretend that Elias isn’t kneeling between his legs, _touching_ him. “Regarding the loss of local landmarks. Original statement given, eighth of April 2006. Recording by – by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

The statement washes over him as he reads, confusion and growing fear as the familiar places the statement giver knew disappeared one by one around him. But he cannot ignore when Elias’ fingers stroke over the swollen lips of the orifice, sending pleasure shivering through him. Jon can’t believe he’s letting this happen, as if it wasn’t enough that his body is no longer his own, to have Elias _touching_ him like this is utterly invasive and horrifying. It feels surreal, and so deeply, achingly erotic that his entire body thrums with it. He gasps when Elias leans in to slide his tongue along the length of the slit, hot and wet and teasing, almost losing his grip on the statement. 

“I, ah, I kept walking,” he continues with some effort. “Thought I’d have to find a street I knew eventually, right? But I – _god,”_ Jon groans as three of Elias’ fingers slip easily into the slick, pulsing interior.

“Keep going,” Elias encourages, amused. Jon shoots him a sharp look, and continues reading, trying to keep his voice steady as Elias’ fingers probe the tight, wet space of him. He can’t compare the sensation to any he’s felt before, but it sends rising shocks of pleasure through him, heat coiling in his belly and his breath coming fast and shallow. Elias crooks his fingers, finding some knot of nerves that makes Jon moan aloud over Max Renn’s terror of absolute abandonment. His whole body is tensing and relaxing in waves under Elias’ relentless, gentle assault, Elias’ fingers thrusting deep, rubbing against that same sweet spot again and again as Jon gasps and whimpers, his stomach muscles clenching frantically. 

“Beautiful,” Elias murmurs, leaning in again to mouth at the swollen entrance, lips and tongue brushing over the sensitive flesh while his fingers work Jon to ecstasy. Jon’s eyes flutter shut as he passes the point of no return, his whole body shaking and gasping over the edge, and yet the words of Max Renn’s statement still fall from his lips as he comes, white hot pleasure surging through his entire body, like no climax he’s ever had. He feels the slit clenching rhythmically around Elias’ fingers as aftershocks of pleasure pulse through him, and he continues talking, his voice rough as he concludes the statement.

“I haven’t been back there since,” he breathes, voice trembling with Max Renn’s despair and his own release. “And I never intend to go back again. But I’m scared, because I keep seeing it in my dreams. Ahh…statement ends.”

Jon is shaking as he looks down at where Elias is still kneeling between his thighs. It’s a mess, his stomach slicked all over with fluids, the slit still throbbing a little, obscenely. Elias is looking up at him with a fervent expression, one hand still splayed possessively over Jon’s abdomen while the other rests on his upper thigh, gently massaging. Jon realizes with faint alarm that his cock is half hard, and that Elias’ hand is very close to it. Elias smiles. 

“Show me what comes next,” he says. Jon shivers. He wants to tell Elias to fuck off, stop being such a smug bastard. He wants to recall his good, righteous anger from earlier, storm out of the room, go home and forget about the Archives for one bloody day. He wants…

What he wants doesn’t matter, because he has no choice, his hand moving of its own accord as he ejects the tape and brings it to the slick entrance, stretched by Elias’ fingers. Slowly, he pushes it inside himself, and as he does he hears Elias’ soft intake of breath, his hand tightening on Jon’s thigh. It feels good, so good, even though he’s just – well, he’s not sure what just happened, but he knows the intrusion of hard plastic makes him groan with sensation that is only partly physical. It’s _knowledge,_ he realizes; entering him, _filling_ him, becoming part of him. 

He is panting by the time the cassette is all the way inside, and Elias is staring raptly. Elias’ fingers press between the slick lips, parting them so he can _see_. Elias licks his lips.

“How wonderful,” he murmurs. He kisses the slit again, brushing lips tenderly over it, and Jon whimpers. He’s dazed and lightheaded, swimming in the strange rapture of this unwanted gift. He doesn’t stop Elias when he begins undoing Jon’s trousers, reaching for Jon’s cock and guiding it between his lips. Elias’ mouth is wet and hot and he sucks fervently, deeply, hollowing his cheeks and laving it with his tongue. Despite himself Jon is fully hard in minutes, his hips bucking up shallowly into Elias’ eager throat. He curls his fingers into the arms of the chair, to prevent himself from gripping Elias’ hair or cupping the back of his neck; gestures far too intimate for whatever this is. 

Elias pulls away and hastily undoes his own trousers, toeing off his shoes. Jon can see his erection tenting out the fabric, and Elias pulls off his trousers and pants in a single swift motion, leaving him naked from the waist down. It’s shocking, to see Elias so exposed, and there’s something a bit silly and grotesque about it, his erection bobbing below his crisp shirt and perfectly knotted tie. He straddles Jon’s thighs, his lean legs bracketing Jon’s and one hand bracing on Jon’s shoulder. The fingers of his other hand slide between the lips of that obscene orifice, dip inside and emerge slick and shining. Elias brings his hand behind him, and Jon can’t see where he’s working fingers inside himself, but he can see the look on Elias’ face, his lips parted and his eyes half closed. 

“Elias…” he says again, and then shivers as Elias leans forward, the head of his cock dragging over the slick, swollen entrance. “God…” he moans.

“Yes,” Elias breathes, his eyes intent on Jon’s. “Your god and mine.”

Elias collects more slick with the fingers of his other hand, and spreads it over Jon’s aching cock. It is body-warm and slippery, and Jon shivers at the knowledge that this came from _inside_ him. He gasps as Elias lines up over his cock and then slowly sinks down onto it, working it inside himself carefully. Jon laughs breathily, feeling a little hysterical. If anyone had told him when he started working at the Institute that he’d be fucking his boss in the Head Archivist's office, he would have told them they were mad, for any number of reasons. And yet here they are, Elias biting his lip and rolling his hips shallowly, tight around Jon’s cock. 

The head of Elias’ cock traces his entrance again, and Jon whimpers softly. 

“Open up to me, Jon,” Elias coaxes, and presses forward, pushing his cock between those slick lips. Jon gives a loud moan of shock and pleasure, and Elias leans in to kiss him, swallowing the sound. 

“Shhh,” he whispers as they part. “Unless you want your assistants to come and see what’s wrong?”

Jon feels a sick, guilty rush at the thought of Melanie or Basira – or, god, _Martin_ walking in on this grotesque scene. They all know what Elias is, but they don’t know what a monster Jon is yet. He’s not sure if they’d be more horrified by the hungry orifice he’s grown, or by the sight of what he’s let Elias do to him. And yet underneath the shame is a deep, hungry thrill at the thought of being _seen_ for what he is, a creature of Beholding, sick and wrong as any monster. He groans and pushes his hips up, which tips Elias forward, his cock sliding deeper into Jon. 

“Oh, I feel it,” Elias murmurs reverently. Jon feels it too, the head of Elias’ cock nudging against the cassette inside him, which is already beginning to subsume into the matrix of his flesh. Jon thrusts up again and Elias moves eagerly with him, grinding his cock into Jon’s throbbing slit and pushing down onto Jon’s cock. The flood of sensation is overwhelming, Elias clenching and sliding around him, Elias’ cock filling his slick hole, sliding against the hard plastic, teasing that sweet spot inside him. Jon is whimpering and gasping, feeling like he’s shaking apart, his whole body tensing and trembling. Elias’ eyes never leave his, holding him, stopping him from falling to pieces as Elias rocks sweetly, viciously against him, panting and moaning quietly. 

“Jon…” Elias breathes, “Jon…” and then he’s coming, his cock jerking inside Jon, flooding his insides with heat, his body clenching tight around Jon, so incredibly tight. Elias keeps rocking against him even after he comes, presses three fingers in alongside his softening cock, stroking across the cassette, working the slick knot of nerves while Jon thrusts up into him, unable to stop the mindless bucking of his hips as arousal grows in great swelling waves and then tumbles him over the edge into mindless pleasure. 

“That’s it,” Elias murmurs as Jon’s cock jerks inside him, Jon’s slit clenching rhythmically around his cock, his fingers, the tape, and Jon has never felt so known in his life. 

They sit there for several minutes, conjoined. Little residual shocks of heat wash through Jon as Elias shifts against him. Elias’ hand strokes his hair, his face. 

“Excellent, Jon,” he says, soft and pleased. “You did wonderfully.”

Jon scowls at him to hide the flush of pleasure at his gentle words. He lets Elias kiss him carefully for a moment, then shies away, pushing Elias off his lap. Jon tucks his wilting cock away quickly, rebuttons his shirt, although it’s so soaked it’s almost a complete loss at this point. 

“I think…I think I should go home,” he says, shakily. 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Elias nods, somehow managing to sound incredibly dignified while pulling on his trousers. “This is a new gift, Jon, I’m sure it must be taking a lot out of you. You should rest.”

“Right,” says Jon. “Yes.” He gets to his feet, still feeling weak and dazed. Elias is smiling encouragingly at him. Under his sodden shirt, the strange new orifice is pulsing contentedly as it begins to absorb the tape. Jon gathers some research notes and reference material, and puts on his coat, closing it across the front of his wet shirt. He hesitates at the office door. He wonders if the others will be suspicious of the time Elias has spent in his office, if they heard any of the – the noises they made. He flushes hot at the thought, then does his best to compose himself. Nothing to be done about it. 

“Do tell me what you… _know_ from that tape,” says Elias, glancing covetously at his abdomen. 

“Elias,” he says, almost pleading. “What does – what does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” Elias says. “But it’s helping you to know more, drawing you closer to our patron. You should be pleased.”

“I’m not,” says Jon, flatly. Elias gives a quiet laugh, and touches his cheek briefly, runs his thumb over the pocked silver scars there. 

“Not yet, maybe. But you will be, Jon. I know you will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@cuttoothed](https://cuttoothed.tumblr.com/).


End file.
